


The Body Keeps Score

by Loudest_Voice



Series: Fire Emblem: 3H fics [8]
Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Dissociation, Gen, Mild Gore, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Canon, Racism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-23
Updated: 2020-03-23
Packaged: 2021-02-28 20:00:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,919
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23272870
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Loudest_Voice/pseuds/Loudest_Voice
Summary: Dimitri, right after The Tragedy of Duscur, lives in his own head.It's not a nice place.
Relationships: Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd & Dedue Molinaro
Series: Fire Emblem: 3H fics [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1512242
Comments: 4
Kudos: 49





	The Body Keeps Score

**Author's Note:**

> I've finally gotten something on paper this year. Thanks to luvsanime02 for helping out as always.

The party is to celebrate Dimitri's recovery, so he has to keep calm like Dedue taught him. Focus on the air entering his nostrils and expanding his chest. Hold for two seconds. One, two. Exhale slowly. Look at the candles. A single candle. Smile when someone says something to him. The people are happy that he has stopped crying. But don't smile too broadly because they are also sad that his father is dead.

Inhale.

One. Two.

Exhale.

Better to look at people's chins. Smile and look down at the same time. Be happy, but not too happy. Say thank you often. Goddess, his head _aches_.

Lord Rodrigue Fraldarius has gone back to his lands because, unlike Dimitri's Uncle Rufus, he cares for his people. Now that Dimitri is smiling and talking at the right times, he cannot justify leaving his lands to fester. Dimitri misses him. He misses Felix. Had missed Felix even when Felix was still in the castle. That makes no sense, but little makes sense lately.

A lady strokes his cheek and Dimitri stops breathing. His stepmother Patricia used to stroke his cheek like that. Dimitri sees her sad smile and his throat hurts. Patricia had done that in the carriage that day, right before an axe shattered the window by her head. Broken glass had cut her face; a piece lodged in her eye.

"Your Highness?" asks the lady.

Smile. "Thank you," Dimitri hears himself saying, as he stares at the lady's chin. "I'm thirsty. Please excuse me."

Dimitri cuts through the crowd, towards the banquet table. He's not sure what he'll do once he gets there, but he needs to get there. Vaguely, he notices that he's not giving people time to clear a path for him. He apologizes mechanically every time he crashes into someone, or he thinks he does. His fingers grasp the banquet table once he finally reaches it, eyes darting over the feast that the kingdom cannot afford. Potatoes. Vegetables. Someone was dumb enough to slaughter a cow. He'll tell the servants to distribute any leftovers among themselves.

Someone touches Dimitri's shoulder.

His crest flares instantly. He grabs the hand without thinking and crushes it. Someone screams.

Chaos erupts. But it's alright. No one dares come close to Dimitri again.

* * *

"That could have gone better," says Uncle Rufus, some indeterminate amount of time later.

Dimitri is back in his quarters. Sunlight streams through the windows. His furs cushion him as Rufus rambles on. Dimitri barely pays attention; his focus is entranced by the softness between his fingers. He counts the bricks on his ceiling.

"Who did I hurt?" asks Dimitri.

"What?"

"Who did I hurt?" repeats Dimitri. "Someone startled me, and I hurt them. Who was it?"

"There's no need to concern yourself with that, Dimitri," says Rufus. "If anything, the people are reassured that the Crest of Blaiddyd lives strong within you."

Dimitri stares at his uncle's blue eyes. Blue, like his. People say his eyes are beautiful, _gorgeous_ , but that cannot be true. They are like his uncle's, vapid and empty like cheap marbles.

"I'd like to be alone now," says Dimitri.

Uncle Rufus pats his head, smiling gently. Dimitri doesn't crush his hand. This is progress.

* * *

The only thing that calms him lately is lance drills, despite the way it makes his heart beat faster. Dimitri trains until his muscles ache and tremble, until he breaks whatever blunt weapon he is using. The squires offered to join in at first, but Dimitri has injured more than a few. And not just with overzealous bruises, either. Bones had been shattered more than once. Dimitri apologized profusely, of course. And of course, the squires accepted his apology, all with forced compliments about the Crest of Blaiddyd. But they have stopped offering to train with Dimitri.

A part of Dimitri is grateful for it.

Most of him is sad about it. He is alone in a crowd. Even the training grounds, the one place where he ever felt at home, is now alien.

He's taken to eating dinner in his room to hide from it all. That, and demanding enough food to feed five people is the only way he can ensure that Dedue is fed appropriately. The people of Fhirdiad are convinced that Dedue has used nefarious Duscur magic to ensnare their prince, and so they try not to give Dedue enough food during breakfast. Dedue had not complained about it, so it took a good two months before Dimitri went looking for him at the servants' dining hall during a meal and noticed that Dedue had been served plain pottage, the thinner portion of it with almost no meat.

Dimitri would have ordered them to serve Dedue more food, but something in Dedue's gaze had stopped him. His friend suffers enough scorn as it is. The servants would have blamed him for incurring Dimitri's wrath, nevermind their petty, cruel behavior. So Dimitri had simply ordered that Dedue join him for dinner every day. Now Dedue eats like a literal prince, since it would be an insult of the highest order to serve the crown prince plain pottage and cured meats.

"It's the knights," he tells Dedue one evening, after hours of going through lance drills on his own.

"My lord?" asks Dedue.

"All the knights closest to my father - to me - are dead," says Dimitri. The youngest of them, an envoy from House Gautier, had screamed as an axe pierced his belly. Dimitri remembers his entrails spilling out in a gush of blood. "There's no one left to spar with me. The only one who didn't die left the kingdom."

"I'm sorry, Your Highness," says Dedue. Everyone is sorry, even though it's not their fault. "Are the new squires not interested in training?"

"At first, they must have been scared of hurting their damaged prince," says Dimitri. "Now they're just scared."

"If you like, I can spar with you," says Dedue.

"Do you know how to. . . I mean. . ." Dimitri pauses.

It occurs to him that he knows so little of Dedue, only that he'd seen him tear through kingdom knights in a futile attempt to save his young sister. The knights had been wearing armor, so they'd survived. Dedue's sister had not. Her skull cracked against a boulder like an egg, and her brains splattered on the ground like a bloody yolk. Does Dedue remember the sight as clearly as Dimitri does?

"I'm no knight," says Dedue, "but I often helped guard my family's hens against bandits."

Thieves so desperate that they would pouch hens are nothing compared to trained Holy Knights. Still, Dimitri sees no reason to rebuff Dedue, who is only trying to help.

"Alright," says Dimitri. "We can spar tomorrow."

* * *

The Holy Knights of Faerghus are nothing compared to Dedue. He is a force of nature, unaware and thus unconcerned with the restraints of chivalry. Best of all, he doesn't treat Dimitri as though Dimitri is made of glass, or as though he's been bitten by a rabid dog. Dimitri can't fade into his memories, then snap back to find a broken sword or broken bones.

At first, the knights and squire protest that their prince should not lower himself to training with. . . They had not offered any words worth repeating. After a few sessions ended with Dimitri's nose on the ground, his training lance yards away, they'd worried that Dedue meant to assassinate him. It's the final kick Dimitri needs to free himself from the worst of the fog left behind by The Tragedy of Duscur. Adopting the same tone his father used when giving an unpopular order, he'd told the knights that he intended to continue training with Dedue.

"And where's Gustave?" he'd demanded, partly to distract them and partly because he had honestly not known.

Gustave is gone.

Not dead, just _gone_. He was King Lambert's knight, and now King Lambert is dead. Dimitri is not important enough to stick around for.

Later, Dimitri cries in his chambers, much like Felix used to when he was younger. Which reminds him of Felix and _Glenn_ , and next thing he knows, the knights are bursting into his room because Dimitri howled in despair. Their lances are unsheathed as they glare at Dedue, almost excited at the chance to rid the castle of the intruder from Duscur.

"Get out!" Dimitri yells.

The knights stare at him, lances gripped uncertainly, gazes flitting to the spot where Dedue is hovering. Waiting until Dimitri is calm enough to accept comfort.

" _Out_ ," screams Dimitri, getting up from the bed.

The knights bow hastily and scramble out of his room. They will get his uncle, no doubt, and Rufus will come and pollute the air with his forced congeniality. Dimitri will kill him one of these days. He'll say something vapid about Dedue, or Crests, or the peasants, and it will remind Dimitri of King Lambert's blood seeping out of his mouth, and Dimitri's rage will burst out of his chest and shatter Rufus' bones.

"Then they will kill you," says Dedue.

Dimitri had not realized that he'd spoken out loud.

"Highness, they will kill you," repeats Dimitri. "Your uncle wants you around so no one questions his . . . his place as regent."

His divine right to the crown, not that Dedue has reason to know the technical terms.

"But if you commit regicide," Dedue closes his eyes. "They felt so righteous, they murdered thousands because they were merely _accused_ of regicide. Please, Your Highness."

"Why won't you call me by my name?" asks Dimitri.

"It isn't proper," says Dedue. "We have to be proper, Your _Highness_. It's a matter of survival."

King Lambert would have said that being proper is the right thing to do, but King Lambert is dead and Dedue is not. Best to listen to Dedue for as long as possible.

"Okay," says Dimitri. "I'll be calm."

* * *

It's not easy, being calm. Not while Uncle Rufus drinks and pisses away the kingdom's treasury as peasants come begging for help against bandits. King Lambert had not been known for his financial generosity, but he'd always dispatched the knights to villages that needed protection. Good way to train, he'd said, and an even better way to keep the people of Faerghus loyal to the crown.

"They're the _Holy_ Knights of Faerghus," Uncle Rufus tells him. "Let them train while guarding bishops and priests and such."

Dimitri nods. He doesn't trust himself to say anything else. A figurehead. He is a figurehead. He should repeat it to himself until he believes it.

"He'll try to kill me eventually," says Dimitri during dinner, after swallowing a mouthful of steak that he does not taste.

"I imagine so," says Dedue, steady as always.

"Why aren't you afraid?" asks Dimitri.

"I am," says Dedue, still steady. Like a fortress in the middle of a siege. "Fear can help, if you let it."

"How?"

"It motivates preparedness," says Dedue.

"And how do I prepare?" Dimitri bites his lower lip. Tears well up in his eyes, like he's a baby. Like he's Felix, from years ago.

"Well, I am no noble," says Dedue.

"It doesn't matter." It doesn't. If anything, it's a good thing. "It was nobles who killed my parents and-" _Glenn_. The name still gives Dimitri trouble.

"But as far as I can see," says Dedue, after Dimitri's gotten his breathing under control, "nobles aren't so different from people in general."

"No?"

"They are capable of cruelty and kindness, just as anyone," says Dedue. "And just as anyone, they are stronger when surrounded by friends and family."

"My family is gone," says Dimitri. Gone in a flash of blood and fire.

"Is it?"

The gentle question startles Dimitri, stops him from spiraling into another gruesome memory.

"I hear whispers all over the castle," says Dedue. "The people have not forgotten about King Lambert's allies: House Gautier and House Fraldarius."

"Whispers. . ." They are Faerghus' most noble territories. "Why whispers?"

Dedue shrugs. "I'm too inconspicuous to play the spy."

But Dimitri isn't. He nods.

* * *

The whispers are about Duke Fraldarius' "disagreements" with the Regent, which coming from House Fraldarius. . . Well, it's a miracle war hasn't broken out. House Fraldarius would follow House Blaiddyd to the eternal flames, or so Dimitri had been taught all his life. Maybe Rodrigue is angry about--Glen's dead eyes stare at Dimitri, choke the breath right out of him. Dimitri had to stop thinking about it so much. He must think of something else. Anything else.

Perhaps Ingrid. . . No. She will be as furious as Felix. More so.

Margrave Gautier—he is more foreign to Dimitri, always up north fighting off Sreng. Sylvain had been his friend. Is his friend. _Is_. Sylvain is not dead. It's so hard sometimes, to keep track of who died and who didn't.

Sparring with Dedue distracts him most of that afternoon. They are working with lances to give Dimitri a longer reach, and so the ordeal is not too boring for Dedue. It takes him a little longer to disarm Dimitri, and he feels a flash of pride about it. It's been so long since he felt anything good that it freezes him on the spot, so Dedue has wrestled him to the ground in a blink.

"Sorry," says Dimitri. "I mean, yield."

Dedue leaps off him, hesitating before offering him a hand. It's fine. Dimitri smiles, almost bursts into hysterical laughter, and then signals that he wants to continue without weapons.

Even their spectators fade away, never mind that Dimitri is awake enough to realize that he should _not_ lose track of the knights watching them. The fiend who murdered his father might be among them, waiting for the opportunity to finish Dimitri off and blame it on the Duscur demon among them.

And just like that, the pride melts away. Hatred takes its place, fills up Dimitri's nose and mouth like the stench of burning flesh. He fights harder, taking advantage of his slim build to squeeze behind his opponent. He climbs the man's broad back, wrapping his arm around the man's neck. They murdered his _father_ -

"Dimitri!"

Dedue's voice cuts through the enraged fog clouding him. He hesitates, giving Dedue enough time to grab his wrist, then go for his shoulder and flip him around. Dimitri lands on the ground, back first, and blinks up at Dedue's worried gaze. One more second lost in rage, and the Crest of Blaiddyd would have activated. He would have crushed Dedue's neck like a grape.

"Yield," says Dimitri.

"Your Highness," says Dedue, taking a careful step back before bowing stiffly.

Dimitri gets up, not as disoriented as he usually is, so soon after he. . . after one of his episodes. He looks around the training fields. Everyone is watching them. Watching him. But no one meets his eyes.

Good.

* * *

"I should ask my uncle," says Dimitri later, at dinner.

He'd tried apologizing for the sparring incident, but Dedue is about as good at accepting apologies as Dimitri is good at not messing up in the first place.

"You know, about contacting Rodriguez?" explains Dimitri. "Duke Fraldarius, I mean. I don't know why he hasn't been sending me letters."

"Hm," says Dedue, savoring the mashed potatoes Dimitri had been served for dinner.

They had been Dimitri's favorite before. . . Before. Nothing tastes like anything anymore.

"I believe he has been writing to you," says Dedue. "When you were sick, a servant tried delivering your letters, but you did not look at them. Your uncle said they could give them to you when you healed."

Dimitri is still sick, but he has no time to idle about while his father's killers roam free. "I'll tell my uncle tomorrow that I'm ready to handle my correspondence."

"Hm," says Dedue.

"I can ask Rodrigue to come visit," says Dimitri, swirling his fork in his share of the potatoes. "He might get my uncle to stop turning peasants away. At least the orphans."

"Why ask your uncle?"

"What do you mean?" says Dimitri.

"Why not just go to the clerk? Send the letter yourself?"

"Oh, I couldn't," says Dimitri. "My uncle is the regent. They are his servants, not mine."

"Hm."

"You don't think it's a good idea?" Dimitri had learned that Dedue will not voice disagreements with him unless prompted.

"Have I spoken to you of my little sister?" asks Dedue, out of nowhere.

The simple question makes Dimitri's heart stutter. Had he? Dimitri remembers so little lately. What does he know of little Duscur girls?

His mind supplies him with a cruel memory: a small, tanned girl wearing a pink tunic and hugging a bouquet of yellow flowers, staring up at a Holy Knight. The spear crushed her sternum, shattered it like glass. Had that been Dedue's little sister?

"She had a peculiar habit," says Dedue, unaware of the dark turn that Dimitri's thoughts had taken. "Well, many peculiar habits, but one in particular comes to mind. She adopted a stray cat once, spent many days sneaking it pieces of meat and cheese, the most expensive of foods."

"Are they?" asks Dimitri, mercifully distracted.

"Yes," says Dedue. "Our father was beside himself when he found out. He almost sent her to sleep in the barn—threatened to, at least; it was the middle of winter—and my sister said, meek as a bunny arguing with a wolf, _I didn't know I wasn't allowed_."

"But if they were the most expensive foods. . ." Dimitri trails off.

"Of course she knew," says Dedue, smiling fondly. "My sister was very clever."

Dimitri nods, his thoughts swimming in the past, as they often do. _Better to ask for forgiveness than to ask for permission_. Glenn. He would have liked Dedue's sister.

* * *

Dimitri would have gone straight to the clerk, but Dedue pointed out that it would be safer to write his letter to Duke Fraldarius so that it might be sent before word got to Rufus.

"And choose your words very carefully," says Dedue, as Dimitri settles at his desk. "It's likely that your uncle will inspect the letter before it is sent."

"You would make a good. . . A good knight," says Dimitri.

Dedue smiles, so Dimitri is grateful that he did not say _spy_. It's not uncommon to believe that the people of Duscur excel at deception, but few would call a man of Duscur knightly.

"Come on, help me write," says Dimitri, gesturing at Dedue to come closer.

Dedue hesitates.

"Really, I'm not the best with words," insists Dimitri. "Just read over my shoulder."

"I can't read or write," Dedue admits, after a second of tense silence.

Dimitri blinks, looks back at Dedue in surprise. Though, why is he surprised? Dedue is a blacksmith's son from the Duscur region.

"I'll read out loud to you," says Dimitri.

They settle for a short letter with sparse detail so that if, when, Rufus sees it, he has no reason to sound the alarm to . . . whatever fiends are behind the Tragedy of Duscur. That's what they'd taken to calling it at some point during Dimitri's convalescence, and it's too late to protest now. No matter how much the name curdles in Dimitri's belly, like boiled rotten eggs. The only tragedy at Duscur was the slaughter of unarmed peasants, and now their memories are used as shields for murderers.

Visiting the royal clerk is more difficult than the letter. Dimitri has never excelled at the natural authoritative tone that's supposed to be his birthright, and Dedue's warnings of his uncle's treachery has left him jittery. More jittery than usual. He wishes he were tall and broad, as his father had been. As Dedue is. The boy in the mirror looks like a doll left in an attic: pitiful and forgotten, with a haggard expression in its glittering blue eyes. Dimitri frowns. It looks like a sullen pout. He raises his chin, as short nobles do when they want to express displeasure, and it makes him look like a babe.

"Am I supposed to threaten him?" Dimitri rarely gives orders, and the ones he does give are simple to follow. His uncle does not care what or when he eats, and he has already allowed Dedue's company.

"No, you go and politely ask for your mail," says Dedue.

"What if the clerk says no?"

"He won't," says Dedue, placing one of his large hands on Dimitri's shoulder. "You are still the crown prince. The title alone carries weight, if you let it."

If you let it. All Dimitri does is let things happen, but not the right things. He would say as much to Dedue, but he might take it the wrong way. Besides, it turns out that he's right. The clerk peers at him when he asks for his letters, but he surrenders the bundle without a comment. Dimitri balks at the size of it. Just how many of his letters had gone unanswered? His father must be rolling in his grave at Dimitri's callousness.

"Your Highness?" the clerk asks, after Dimitri has stood frozen in front of his desk, looking down at his letters.

"And I have a letter for Duke Fraldarius," says Dimitri, proud that his voice does not tremble. "See that it is on its way as soon as possible."

"Of course, Your Highness," says the clerk.

Dimitri nods, refusing to let himself get lost in his scattered thoughts. The last thing they need is for it to look like this is all Dedue's idea. The details might be, but only because Dimitri is too stupefied by grief to figure out the best way to send a message to his vassals.

"Do you think he'll come?" asks Dimitri later, after they're back in his chambers.

"Of course, Your Highness," says Dedue. "Even the people of Duscur knew of House Fraldarius' loyalty to House Blaiddyd."

Probably. Loog and Kyphon are famous all over Fodlan. There are operas and plays about them all the way out in Enbarr, or so Glenn used to say. But surely. . . Surely, Loog had not failed; he had protected Kyphon, unlike- Dimitri presses his hands to his face, digs his fingers into his forehead to chase away the dark thoughts.

"Your Highness?"

"I wish you'd call me Dimitri." _Highness_ sounds like a taunt when Dimitri feels so low. "At least when we're alone."

"That's not a good idea," says Dedue. "You should strive to be the same person in your room as you are outside of it."

Dimitri grunts. That might be true for people like Dedue, who are strong, brave, and smart, but all Dimitri has are dark thoughts and unnatural strength that he can hardly control. Nevertheless, the comment gives Dimitri an idea.

"I could teach you to read and write," he tells Dedue.

"There's no need, Your Highness," says Dedue. "You have much to focus on. I don't want to distract you."

"Nonsense!" Ditrimi straightens his back and gives Dedue a steady look. "You are a retainer to the future king of Faerghus. You _must_ read and write so you can help me with treaties and laws and the like."

"Your Highness. . ." Dedue shakes his head, smiling warmly. "Of course, I'll do my best."

Dimitri grins, and it's been long enough since he's done so that his cheeks almost hurt. His chest hurts, but it's not a bad feeling. For once. If he can help Dedue even in such a small way, then maybe there's some worth left to him after all.

Maybe there's still hope.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm @Funnyffxvpics over at Twitter, where I'm probably gonna be mostly AWOL let's be real.
> 
> There are cat pics though.


End file.
